


Operation Roman Vomitorium

by WatchMyFavesSuffer



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Blowjobs, Bulimia, College, Eating Disorders, Exercise Addiction, Frivolous Lawsuits, Help! I’m Addicted to Giving Characters Eating Disorders and I Can’t Get Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, degradation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 10:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21456745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMyFavesSuffer/pseuds/WatchMyFavesSuffer
Summary: God's honest truth, Roman has never been sucked off by his personal trainer. Well, not this personal trainer.Or, Roman bottoms for a townie with nice pecs and may or may not develop an eating disorder along the way. This is garbage, I’m sorry to God, my parents, and Kieran Culkin, my precious manlet king.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy, Roman “Romulus” Roy/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Operation Roman Vomitorium

God’s honest truth, Roman had never been sucked off by his personal trainer. Well, not _this_ personal trainer.

During college, he made an abortive attempt at getting buff. He paid some muscular townie working at a local restaurant to quit his job and train with him full time. His name was DJ. (And, by the way, what hormone in the water causes New Englanders to only birth two-initial meat towers who play hockey and think wearing shirts with sleeves is gay?) 

After a few weeks of kettle bells and Russian twists, Roman still wasn’t the rippling-muscled god-among-men he had pictured. 

“I don’t think this is working. Maybe you should just go back to selling burgers to normos.” He shifted into his most ridiculous townie impression. “‘_I reccommend the specials, except for the soup, because TJ dared CJ to jerk off into it_.’”

“What am I doing wrong? You’re making progress, Roy.” 

“You’re not like...motivational enough. Whatever. I don’t know.”

“Like, motivational how?” 

“Don’t you have like, a dozen uncles with square faces who were in the Marines? Dial up the drill sargeant a little bit.” He shrugged and looked away, made his voice conspicuously casual. “Like, you know. ‘You’re a faggot, Roy.’ or like ‘You’re a skinny-fat manlet who needs all of his dubious charms and gobs of money to even get a girl to look at him without puking.’ Whatever. Be creative, put your own spin on it.” 

“Like, you want me to be a dick to you?” And yeah, DJ looked kind of pretty when he looked at Roman like that. If Roman _cared_ about other guys and their long eyelashes and their delicately tapered jawlines, that is.

“Something like that. I’m sure you bullied a lot of gays and cripples at Bonertown Middle School, just do that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. His shoulders were up against his ears, the perma-shrug he adopted when he was well and truly uncomfortable.

“And this isn’t some fucked-up head game where you say you want it but then when I do it you sue me and get my parent’s house forclosed?” 

“Jesus, is that the vibe I give off? Don’t answer that. I _will_ sue you.” 

He didn’t mean for it to be a sex thing. Not originally. Sure, he knew he got off on getting treated like shit, but he also liked to be treated like shit platonically. Because he was pretty sure he deserved it. And like, boo hoo, poor little rich boy, right? He had way too much money to ever be incentivized to better himself. So if he was stuck being a slimy, dopey little sex pest with no work ethic and a vague distaste for poor people, he might as well let people smack him around for it. There was something nice about getting talked down to, or hit, when he asked for it, rather than it coming out of nowhere when Logan suddenly grew tired of his shit. 

And he could tell DJ liked it, if only because he sort of hated Roman.

It started off as your standard issue smack talk. “Come on, you fucking pussy, give me five more. Is that the best you can do?” 

And after Roman popped a few poorly-concealed semis, DJ stepped up his game. “You’re a weasel-faced rich boy fag, Roy. You’re fucking hopeless. Pathetic little limp-dick loser.” 

One day, DJ was holding down his feet while he did crunches, and he had gotten this incredibly steely, cruel look in his eyes. 

“Are you even _trying_ to get a better body, or are you just here to splooge your pants while I spot you?” 

And his semi suddenly became a, you know, _full, _and he groaned out loud as it rubbed against his Under Armour shorts. 

“Well, Roy, are you gonna try to hump my leg like a chihuahua?”

“Fuck,” he breathed. 

“Tell you what. 10 sets of 50 and you can jerk it.”

Roman kept going until his insides ached, until his breath came in gasps and whimpers and his dick felt rubbed raw against the netting of his shorts.

“And that’s 500. Two minutes, Roy.”

“Two minutes?”

“Whip it out before I change my mind.” 

Roman eagerly pulled it out. (And, by the way, even though Ken got the brains and Shiv got the looks and Connor got the height and— fuck, what was he saying? Oh yeah, right. He had the biggest dick of the Roy clan, proportionally speaking.) 

The timer, which always hung around DJ’s neck and between his perfect community-college-dropout pecs, beeped, and Roman started feverishly bucking his hips, his fingers getting slippery with precum and his cock aching as DJ looked at him from above—and by the way, DJ had really nice lips for someone so aggressively caucasian, and—

“Thirty seconds left. Tick-tock, faggot.” 

And Roman came between his fingers and all over his chest, his shirt pulled up, his hips twitching, his lips damp.

“Wonder what your daddy would say if he knew this is what you were up to while he meets with Bill Gates and shit.” DJ laughed and ran a hand through Roman’s sweat-damp hair. “Good work, Roy. See you tomorrow.”

And the whole hard-work-for-cumming-privileges thing continued. And it probably wasn’t the _healthiest_ thing (Roman knew enough rich girls to spot a subclinical eating disorder at twenty paces, and knew their male counterparts even better: ketogenic, creatine-high intermittent fasting bros who thought they reinvented the wheel when they decided to only eat 1200 calories a day.) but it was so, _so_ hot.

In the kingdom that was WaystarRoyco, Roman was never going to be king. He was more like the feeble-minded prince who hunted peasants for sport. Or a perverted lower noble with a giant fuck castle on a British cliffside. (Little Lord Fondle-Roy?) He didn’t hate himsef for not being the One, the exalted heir to a flotilla of cheesy cruise ships and all the crypto-fascist propagandists money can buy. After all, he had no interest in graphs or power lunches or B school; no genuine interest in ruling at all. But he did hate how that made Logan look at him; like a pathetic puppy, the runt of the litter begging for milk and humping the table legs. Growing up, Logan never hit him as much as he hit Kendall, but that felt less like a sign of approval and more a sign that he wasn’t worth the exertion. 

Roman’s teenage years were like an extended epsiode of a game show called What’s Wrong With Me? (The winner gets the grand prize of absolutely nothing! Just the crushing certainty that one of his many characters flaws has marked him permanently as deficient!) He knew the weaknesses of his other siblings: Connor was too weird, and out of favor by default because of his mother. Shiv was a _girl_, and too rebellious anyway. Kendall wanted people to like him too badly, and was getting into designer drugs. As for Roman? There were too many deficiencies to choose from. Diffuse, unfocused, permanently horny, glib, openly contemptuous of nearly everyone, forgetful, irresponsible, easily distract—

It occured to him one day that he simply didn’t look the part. Weren’t heirs to massive inheritances all buff and six feet tall with eerily symmetrical faces? Roman never got taller than 5’6” or weighed less than 140. And like, whatever. For a long tome he didn’t bother trying to change it, because gyms were the most boring places on earth, and he wasn’t going to stop eating carbs like some kind of _woman._ He was obviously far more interesting and sexually appealing than his brothers (I mean, come _on) _but Kendall, thanks to high school track and crew, became the lean, mean, sad-sack fuck machine the world knows and loves, and Connor grew up skinny and rangy liked Ewan. Which left him feeling like the unfuckable chick at the club hidden among her Gaultier-clad girlfriends. And, well, _gross_.

And while he wasn’t enough of a shallow idiot to think that was the whole problem, it was a convenient stand-in for the myriad Things that Were Wrong with Him.

So it wasn’t super surprising that after DJ started sucking him off once for every 700 calories burned, things sort of got out of hand. When he worked out until he almost cried, until he puked, until he ached nonstop and quit bothering with homework, he felt good. He could follow the sound of the other man’s voice, move the way he wanted him to move, and not have to think. He never got distracted, never got lazy, so long as this beautiful, commanding, brutal presence loomed above him. He felt controlled and strong as a blowtorch flame, a single focused beam. Or at least, as strong one of those weirdly aggressive but also super skinny greyhound dogs. 

So what? This dumbfuck New Englander with his outlet store sneakers had some sort of power over him. And yeah, his wires got a little crossed. He became weirdly dependant on praise, on emptiness, and on pain to feel good, to get hard, and to feel worthwhile. 

And he was so good—_so_ good. No carbs, never skipped leg day, clocked 20,000 steps every day. And he wanted to be good, not just for the blowjobs, but for the pure _yes _that rushed through his veins at the prospect of doing something right for once. 

And when he wasn’t good—well, he learned how to fix it. You know, Nature’s Eject Button? The Reverse Peristalsis Mambo. Nom and Vom. Scarf and Barf. Et cetera.

Shiv came to visit Roman during her fall break. They were supposed to smoke weed all night in his apartment and then she'd ditch him to hook up with an English major at the first opportunity. And Siobhan Roy only smokes primo shit, so the munchies hit hard as fuck. And it felt good, uncharacteristically _easy, _being with his sister when she was like this. His muscles, which were constantly sore, relaxed a bit. He ate and didn’t think twice about it; they split bag after bag of chips, watched cartoons and ate ice cream straight from the carton. They laughed at nothing, and didn’t talk about their father or Dog Pound or military school. 

That is, until the high started to fade and he realized he needed to get all this food out of his body, _stat, _because if DJ sees how undefined and gross his midsection looks right now, that would totally undo him. He mumbles something about having to take a whizz and stumbles to the bathroom. He’s still fairly high, and clumsily shoves his hand down his throat, sending up a silent prayer to the gods of manorexia that it will all come up. 

His hand is all gunked-up and he is decidedly unsexy, eyes watering, throat butning, dry-heaving into the toilet bowl, cursing himself for forgetting to eat something brightly colored first (an ingenious system he invented: see bright colors, you know the job is done) when Shiv starts banging on the door. 

“Dude, are you okay? More importantly, am I going to be okay? Like, did we just eat expired ice cream because you can’t clean out your goddamn fridge?” 

She jiggles the handle and finds it unlocked. Fuck. 

“Jesus, Rome. Jesus fucking Christ—“

“Just— close the door, alright? I’d like to cough up my organs in peace.”

She shuts the door— hastily, flusteredly. 

_Fuck_. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Well, she saw. Can’t unsuck _that_ particular dick. Might as well finish the job. 

Once he’s emptied out and his hands are de-gunked, he emerges, affecting casualness as best he can. 

“Oh, you’re watching _Space Jam_?” 

Shiv, in her most passive-agressive _you-dumb-shit-tit-mouse-toddler _voice: “Yes, Roman. I _am _watching _Space Jam_.” 

“Cool, cool. Um, did you happen to—“

“Clearly see you deethroating your own hand? Uh-huh.”

“Well, ya know, weren’t there Roman vomitoriums or something? Just living up to the name. I don’t know. Fuck it, right?” 

“First of all, the Roman vomitorium is an urban legend based on a mistranslation of the Latin verb _vomere_. _How_ did Dad get you into college? Second of all, are you...manorexic now?”

“Um, _no. _Do I _look_ like I listen to Linkin Park and wear nail polish?” 

She smiled wryly, with an implicit _well yeah, you kinda do._

“Ah, fuck off.” He crossed his arms, shoulders pinned to his ears. “Just, don’t tell Dad, right? Like I don’t want to get sent to whatever booby hatch Con’s mom is locked up in.”

“I won’t tell. Nothing in it for me anyway.” She picks up some rolling papers off the table, clumsily tries to roll a joint, and gives up. 

“Not that I really care, but why?”

“W-Whatta you mean, _why_?”

“I don’t know, it always seemed like you thought you were King Cock of Big Boy Mountain. Kind of hard to believe you’d...do that to yourself. Bespeaks some violent self-hatred, don’t you think?” 

Another patented Roman Shrug. 

“Is it because of— well, like, Dad? I know he’s been kind of hard on you and Kendall in the past—“

“I actually don’t really know what you’re talking about, Shiv.”

“I mean, we don’t have to talk about it, but Dad can get kind of...”

“I honestly have, like, no memory of whatever it is you’re talking about. So.” 

“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to take a nap. And uh, disinfect your bathroom if you’re going to keep doing that.” She hits him with a condescending double-pat on the arm, and walks out of the room.

He figures he should probably break things off with DJ. He wasn’t so great anyway, and since he wasn’t having real sex (like, at parties, with girls) what was the point of getting in shape? But he also really didn’t want to _say the words_, like _DJ, I think we ahould break u_p, or whatever the appropriate term is for no longer getting degraded-n-fellated a few times a week. 

So the next morning, he calls Gerri (interrupting some sort of turtle-related normo bullshit with her husband and kids.)

“Hey! How is my favorite....I want to say ‘head lawyer lady’?”

“My God, Roman, did you do a hit and run?”

“No. Well, not that you need to know about. I wanna know if you can slap some kind of lawsuit on this family business. It’s some sort of travel agency in central Massachusetts, run by David Miller and his wife. If you could also sue David Jr., that would be a great bonus but, like, no pressure.”

“Do you know _what_, exactly, we’re suing them for?”

“Um, nope! This is one of those petty revenge things, so the actual _case_ doesn’t matter so much as you fucking them, quite hard, preferably without lube.”

“Ok, Roman. I’ll see if I can work something up— capitalizing off goodwill generates by the Brightstar cruise line brand. That sound good to you?”

“Yep, luv ya Ger.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on the eating disorder side of things:
> 
> Though the characters do, I of course in no way take eating disorders lightly or encourage that anyone develop of experiment with disordered behaviors. Please do not read if this will have a serious deleterious effect on your mental health. 
> 
> Roman implies at some point that eating disorders are a rich girl thing. This is patently untrue and I in no way believe it or want my readers to believe it.
> 
> The practice of using brightly colored “marker foods” is not something Roman invented and it also doesn’t, strictly speaking, work. Jsyk.


End file.
